


The Scheme of Things

by QuickYoke



Series: The Wonder Years of the Greatest Generation [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angie is a mechanic and Peggy is a massive grump, F/F, Fluffy AU nonsense, Plot? In MY fic? It's more common than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie manages to cross the pond to England during the last years of the War. But she soon finds that helping with the war effort isn't all that cracked up to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_'Ah, Love! Could thou and I with Fate conspire_

_To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,_

_Would not we shatter it to bits – and then_

_Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire.”_

_-Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, LXXIII_

 

* * *

 

It wasn't like Angie intended to come to England just to be bossed around or ignored. That was just how it all played out. Things happened.

Ok, so maybe she had put herself into this situation, but it had only been with the best of intentions. She'd marched straight up to the local recruiting officer for the Air Force back in New York, and demanded to be allowed to serve as a mechanic. He'd laughed for minutes, doubled over and crinkling his starched uniform, during which time she'd scribbled a quick diagram on a napkin. It was a crude drawing, but it did the job: a P-51D Mustang but with an added little fillet to the vertical stabiliser. Then she'd shoved the napkin into his face and told him he should also consider her idea for a simple locking mechanism for the loading gear.

He'd stopped laughing quick-like after that, then spent the next few minutes squinting at her, and at the napkin, and back at her again. Then he'd snatched the references from her hands. Aiming a glare at her over the papers, he'd snapped, “Don't make me regret this.” and she'd been on her way.

Goodbye, Manhattan. Hello, England.

That was 1943. Now it was 1944. Pretty late in the grand scheme of things, but what's a poor girl from Brooklyn to do? Her best, that's what. And this was certainly not her best.

Currently she was elbows deep in a battered Hawker Typhoon. This one still had a modified balance weight assembly from the previous year, and she wanted to rip the damn useless thing apart, and fix it with a redesigned assembly. Not to mention that god-awful tail – who designed these garbage cans anyway?

Grumbling to herself, smeared head to toe with grease across her baggy, male, standard issue overalls, Angie ignored any looks she got from neighbouring mechanics. The others were all men – strange, she thought. She'd heard the WAAF had a decent amount of lady engineers, but apparently they'd all been deployed elsewhere. Not that she could blame them. Who'd want to be stared at by the local scrubs like she was a zoo attraction?

But if her male co-workers muttered about her oddities, they still couldn't deny that Angela Martinelli had a gift.

Angie was as much of a grease monkey as they came. She could take apart anything mechanical and put it back together again before you could say 'fuselage.' Back home her father ran a successful chain of garages throughout the greater Manhattan area, and Angie – the only one of his six daughters who found the business remotely interesting – learned at his knee. Even now at the ripe old age of twenty four she knew more than most of the senior mechanics working at the aerodrome. Planes weren't her speciality – not like cars were – but stick an engine under her nose and she could learn every piece in an afternoon. By touch, look, name, function, whatever you fancy.

And if she also gave all the planes cute nicknames the boys scoffed at, well...a girl has her priorities in life after all.

All that talent, and they had her tinkering with banged up, outdated Typhoons.

Less than a year, and she was already starting to regret her decisions in life. Oh, boy. Wouldn't Ma be full of 'I told you so's' and rapid-tongued Italian life advise that involved more meat on her bones and men in her life. Probably men on her bones too. Who knows. 

Swearing softly under her breath, Angie shifted her weight, the step ladder creaking beneath her feet. Even three thousand miles away from home and she still swore quietly as though afraid of being caught.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye. With a puzzled frown Angie glanced over, then did a double take.

She knew there were other women on the site, but they typically haunted the Comms building – telephone operators, secretaries, stuff like that. Nice looking gals, too. Always with their best nylon stockings and pressed skirts. Their pretty painted nails probably never saw a smidgen of grease in their whole lives, and Angie kind of envied them in a way. Being glamorous and turning heads, that was never her shtick. But a girl can dream, right?

This lady, though – well, Angie just blinked dumbly, still elbows deep in a partially dismembered engine, ill-fitted sleeves rolled up and hanging slackly. This lady looked like she'd stepped from one of those recruitment posters, dark hair coiffed to exact regulation standards, white collar gleaming against the lapels of her suit, sharpened with enough starch to cut. How on earth she moved so quietly across the polished cement floor in those heels was beyond Angie. Honest to god witchcraft. And on top of it all she was an _officer_ , not just some dancing girl for that Captain America show they used to circulate before the Cap, well – died. Her rank was ill-defined but the brass gleamed at her padded shoulders and the corner of each lapel.

Of course, being a delicate swan of a human being, Angie's fingers decided to choose that exact moment to slip and send her scrambling for the rivet squeezer. At the ensuing clamour, the woman's head whipped around, eyes hard as tungsten drill bits. Clearing her throat, Angie pushed nervously at the pale pink kerchief that kept the hair out of her face, then tried her best to look busy and aloof.

Whether it worked or not she didn't know. Next time she looked up, the woman was gone, and Angie heaved a sigh.

“Real smooth, Ange,” she mumbled to herself.

Shaking her head, Angie wiped at her brow – heedless of the broad streak of black grease the back of her hand left behind – and threw herself into work. By the time she finished, plunking the cowl back over the engine with a satisfied brush of her hands, evening had crept up, and the sky was darkened with the drum of rain.

The boys had all left over an hour ago, and Angie didn't blame them. She would've done the same, had she been capable of leaving a project half finished and sprawled across half her section of floor. As it was, she twisted her mouth at some of her neighbours' projects, immediately spotting their glaring flaws, but she turned her itching fingers to the rumpled pack of cigarettes in her breast pocket instead.

Smoking in the hangar was a big no-no, so outside she went, clinging to the wall, huddled beneath the narrow eaves for any brief respite from the downpour. She broke one match, and another was snuffed out by a fat raindrop before she finally lit her cigarette.

From the opposite building – wasn't that Command? – she saw a figure turn up their collar and race to a car in the parking lot. Idly Angie watched as the car stubbornly refused to start. After enduring the engine stuttering for a good two minutes, she rolled her eyes, gave the cigarette one last long drag until the ash burned her fingertips, then made a mad dash through the parking lot.

_Always gotta be a good Samaritan, Ange._

She ignored the thought, rapped on the window, and gestured to the hood of the car. Inside, the dim light illuminated none other than the mystery lady officer from earlier, looking less than pleased. Grumpy or not, Lady-Officer still popped the hood and climbed out of the driver's seat to join in on the inspection.

“Get back in there,” Angie waved her away once she'd propped the hood up and leaned over the engine, “I got this.”

“I'm perfectly capable of fixing my own car,” Lady-Officer replied, her British accent crisp and waspish.

Angie bristled, “Look, English. I get it. You've had a long day. But I need you on the ignition when I give you the wave, alright?”

Lady-Officer wrenched her mouth open like she was going to put up a fight, but instead she huffed and stormed back to the car, slamming the door behind her.

Shaking her head, Angie gave the engine a quick once-over. The battery looked fine, but whoever had put together the relay wiring connections should be tried at the Reichsgericht and shot. Alternator belt looked like it was giving up the ghost as well. Lady-Officer should really change that before it became a problem.

After cleaning everything off and tightening the wire connections as best she could given the current circumstances, Angie dropped the hood with a clang and waved as she made her way around the car. Lady-Officer turned the key as Angie slid into the passenger seat, and the engine purred to life.

“There!” Angie smiled broadly, ineffectually wiping water from her cheeks with her forearms – the only part of her that was clean in any shape or form, “All better!”

Lady-Officer scowled at the muck Angie's overalls were imprinting on the genuine leather seats. Immediately Angie felt that this whole good Samaritan thing was overrated. She should have just left her in the rain and gone to her own quarters down the road.

For a moment they sat together in silence while the car idled, rain hammering against the rooftop, Lady-Officer's once fastidious curls limp and dripping. Cherry red nails dug into her palms around the steering wheel as Lady-Officer clenched her hands. Finally she said, stiff, “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Angie breathed into her cold wet hands in a vain attempt to warm them, “I should go. Enjoy your evening, English.”

Without a backward glance Angie clambered out back into the rain and slammed the door shut behind her, sprinting for cover. Once she was safely beneath the hangar eaves once more, she did look back. The car was still there. Then it pulled smoothly away and drove off into the night, tail lights vanishing behind heavy sheets of rain.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Days passed, and Angie fell into the same humdrum rhythm of the hangar like a wheel stuck in a rut. One day, though, they got a special delivery from mainland Europe. A whole shipment of enemy planes needing to be taken apart and carefully documented for further study and experimentation.

She fought tooth and nail over a damaged Messerschmitt ME-262 that had been shot down over France and transported across the Channel. Normally she wouldn't be itching to get her hands on something she'd already taken apart and put back together three times, but this was a B-la/U1 variant. She couldn't just let that slide into _Paul Harris'_ hands, of all people! He'd take one look at those 30mm cannons and completely forget about the radar.

Oh, boy. Just thinking about that radar made her sweat. In the good way.

That was how Lady-Officer found her.

“Excuse me?”

Angie yelped and nearly jumped out of her skin, clutching a half-dismantled FuG-218 Neptun radar box to her chest like it was her first-born. From where she sat cross-legged on her section of hangar floor, she squinted up at who had addressed her, “Geeze, English! Can't you try making noise sometime? You'll scare someone to death one of these days!”

Hands clasped behind her back, posture rigid, Lady-Officer smiled down at her, hesitant, “Apologies, Angie. Next time I shall try to alert you to my presence sooner.”

Shaking her head, Angie turned back to the radar, “More car trouble?” she asked, without hesitating over her name being spoken by an almost complete stranger. She did wear a name-tag, after all.

“No, actually,” she seemed to collect herself, then forged on, “I came here to apologise for my behaviour the other night. You were very kind and helpful, and I was -”

“An ass?” Angie supplied helpfully.

Lady-Officer winced, “Yes. I brought you this. As recompense.” She held out a paper bag and a thermos, “It's tea and a scone.”

For a moment Angie just studied the gift, chewing the inside of her cheek, before she set aside the radar, rose to her feet, and brushed off her lap, “Alright. But just so you know, I don't take meals alone. And for future reference: I'm more of a coffee kind of girl.”

That was a lie. Pretty much every meal she ate alone, preferring to stash away mess food and munch while on the job.

The coffee part wasn't a lie though. One hundred percent truth.

Still, Lady-Officer smiled, “I'll have to remember that.”

Women shouldn't be allowed to smile like that. It should be illegal. A top tier felony.

“I also don't share meals with ladies without knowing their names first,” Angie stuck out her hand, “Seems hardly fair you already know mine.”

For all her pristine appearance and previous behaviour, Lady-Officer didn't hesitate to take Angie's grungy hand, clasping it, firm and warm, “Peggy. Peggy Carter.”

“Come on,” Angie gestured for Peggy to follow, “I'll show you my favourite spot in the house.”

Leading her up a flight of stairs to the mezzanine office level, Angie was impressed when Peggy didn't even blink at the rickety ladder behind the WC. She just clamped the paper bag between her teeth and scaled the ladder one-handed, the thermos in the other. High into the rafters they crept along until they were seated on the mesh catwalk directly above the humming activity below. Angie swung her legs until they dangled over the side with practised ease, and leaned on the single railing.

She patted the space next to her, “Come on. Hand over that scone.”

Peggy slipped off her heels before joining Angie, one leg tucked up beneath her.

Gosh. She couldn't even sit on a catwalk without looking classy. Life just wasn't fair.

The scone was stale and the tea didn't have any milk, but the way rations worked these days Angie was impressed all the same. Peggy tried offering her a cigarette, but Angie declined, “No smoking in the hangar. Not even way up here.”

Peggy shrugged, and pocketed it.

They swapped the thermos between them, alternatively taking swigs and stuffing their mouths with dense crumbly pastry.

“So, why'd you come around the hangar the other day?” Angie asked, both elbows on the railing, “I saw you sneaking around before I helped fix your car.”

“I was not _sneaking_ ,” Peggy corrected with an air of primness belied by the careful way she avoided Angie's gaze, “I came to admire the planes. I was feeling sentimental.”

Sipping at the tea, Angie eyed her over the rim, then said, “Oh, I see. You have it bad for one of the hot-shot pilot types.”

Peggy actually snorted, a brief sarcastic laugh, “No, actually. By all accounts he was a terrible pilot."

_Was._

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Good job sticking your foot in it, Martinelli. Right off the bat too. What rotten luck.

Angie grimaced, “I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to -”

But Peggy just shook her head, “It's fine.”

“When did he go?”

Peggy inhaled deeply before replying, “Last year.”

Salt on fresh wounds no less. Twisting her hands in her baggy sleeves, Angie desperately cast about for another topic, “What kind of aircraft did he fly?”

“No idea,” Peggy replied, “It was experimental.”

Angie had to stop herself from pressing for further details – Experimental? What was the wing shape? Do you remember anything about the dimensions of the fuselage? – Now was not the time for all of that nonsense.

“Well, if you ever want to know how one works, I can give you a tour,” she supplied instead, gesturing to her space below them.

Peggy swallowed a hunk of scone and said, “How exactly does a Yank end up at a British aerodrome as an engineer?”

Angie evaded with a shrug, “War brings strange people to strange places, I guess.”

Turned out Peggy was also the relentless type, “No, come on. Really.”

Buying herself time with another swig of tea before passing the thermos back, Angie said, “My dad is a car mechanic. I picked it all up because of him. Guilt by association. And I wanted to help in the war effort any way I could.” She turned to find Peggy studying her profile, and gave her an overly-broad smile, “That's it. I swear. I'm real boring.”

The expression on Peggy's face told her exactly how much Peggy believed that load of bunk. Which was to say: not at all, “Says the girl with a secret nest in the rafters of a research hangar for war planes at RAE Farnborough.”

“Hey,” Angie levelled a finger at her, “This nest is purely for practical purposes. Gotta keep an eye on those little cheats.” She glared down at her fellow mechanics.

“You think they're stealing?”

“Happens more often than you'd think. _Hands off the goods, Paul!_ ” Angie bellowed from their hidden spot, voice ringing all around the hangar below. A lanky mechanic snatched his hand back from the ME-262's cannons and fled to his own corner of the hangar, looking around for Angie but unable to find her.

“Told you so,” Angie nudged Peggy with her elbow.

“Unbelievable,” Peggy mumbled gracelessly around a mouthful of scone.

Angie kicked her legs in swinging arcs over the side of the railing, “I think they're convinced I live here instead of in my quarters.”

“Are they wrong?”

Angie feigned mock hurt before her expression dissolved into a conspiratorial grin, “Not completely.”

Peggy actually laughed, and Angie felt like she'd hit a Grand Slam. Crowd cheering. All that jazz.

Angie was a dead goner, and she knew it. She hadn't felt like this since that time she first successfully reassembled her dad's old four-stroke Indian Ace back in '34.

“You know,” she began, “you're not what I originally thought.”

“Oh?” Peggy raised an eyebrow, “And what did you originally think?”

“Well, I mean,” Angie flapped her hand at her – all of her, “look at you. All _collected_ and – and, well, here you are. Lounging around with someone like me.”

The glance Peggy gave her was sly, “I don't mind a bit of mud and dirt every now and then.”

“You certainly gave me the stink-eye when I got grease on your leather interior,” Angie shot back.

“It wasn't my car.”

_Oh. Whoops._

Before Angie could apologise however, Peggy held up her hand, “It doesn't matter. It's not like Howard actually cares about one little car.”

Of course she had a guy. Or maybe another guy. Rebound guy? Who knows. Still a guy. Rich one too, by the sounds of it.

Angie reached down to find that the scone was entirely gone, as was the tea. Licking the pad of her thumb, she pressed down along the paper to collect crumbs. Surprisingly, Peggy did the same, albeit with less grease stains left behind on the paper bag. They were careful not to let their hands brush, though Angie had the sneaking suspicion Peggy would've usually taken the opportunity to tease. She seemed the sort.

“I should probably get going,” Peggy sighed once they'd finished every last crumb. She pushed up from the railing and wriggled her feet back into her shoes, thermos tucked beneath one arm like a baton. With a soft parting smile over her shoulder she said, “This was fun. Thank you.”

Not rising from where she sat, Angie shrugged and returned the smile, “You brought the food. I just live here.”

A light hum, a small laugh held in the mouth like a stone, and Peggy was away, climbing back down the ladder, careful not to reveal its location to any of the other mechanics. From her hiding spot Angie watched as Peggy noiselessly wove through the jumble of scattered plane parts, unseen by any – nimble and fleet as a ghost. And then she was gone.

Ah, well. At least it was fun while it lasted.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Angie saw Peggy, the meeting was unplanned. Unexepected. Perhaps a bit unlucky even. Or lucky. Depends on the point of view.

As usual Angie was jealously guarding her section of floor – she wouldn't let Paul pull the wool over her eyes. Not again. Say what you will, but Angela Martinelli never needed to be taught a lesson twice.

When she'd first arrived, she'd been eager and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and every other synonym for 'naïve' and 'easily exploited.' The very first plane she'd been given was a truly haggard Supermarine Spitfire Mk XII. Everybody overlooked it for the newer juicier arrivals, and there it had sat in the very back corner of the hangar since 1942 as though it were just waiting for her. She couldn't have been happier.

Just thinking about how she'd gushed over it that first day made her cheeks pink. She'd like to say things had changed, but that would be a big fat fib. Ma would wash her mouth out with hydrogen peroxide.

Anyway, it had been a glorious hunk of junk, and to be perfectly honest it was the first aircraft Angie was actually allowed to touch. Oh, sure. She'd bluffed her way into the RAE's research squad by looking at a few diagrams and pictures of planes – but this was the real deal. Everything leading up to that moment felt like some hazy dream.

None of the boys wanted it, so of course they pawned it off to their new doe-eyed arrival. When she first removed the cowl to reveal the Rolls-Royce Griffon engine, it was like stepping through St. Peter's pearly gates.

She worked on that Mk XII for weeks. Whenever they'd walk by her floor section, everyone would laugh and shake their heads. “That Batty Yank” they called her. Until they saw what she'd produced, that was.

Tear-drop canopy. Two 33 gallon fuel tanks installed in the cut-back rear fuselage. A new and more powerful 24 volt electrical system that far outclassed the old 12 volt models. Zero-point fittings for rocket projectiles under the wings. A larger tail unit. Modified trim tab gearings to perfect handling. It would crack 450mph and climb to 30,000 ft in seven minutes flat, she was sure of it.

She'd finished her work on the Spitfire on a Thursday, and treated herself to a long weekend. Heck, she deserved it. When she came back Monday morning, cheery as can be, she'd stopped in her tracks and stared at her empty floor section.

 _Paul Harris_ had thought she'd 'given up' on the project, and _Paul Harris_ had taken it up as his duty to help out his 'junior colleague' in finishing it for her.

Apparently 'finishing the project' meant stamping his name on it and wheeling it out for everyone to gawk at while Angie slept a well-deserved, lazy weekend away in her quarters down the quad.

But that was old news.

Didn't mean she still didn't entertain thoughts about Paul Harris that would have her Ma snatching up her favourite rosary and switch, though.

Now it was lunchtime, and a piece of toast – lightly scraped with a thin layer of precious golden salty butter – hung precariously from Angie's teeth as she tinkered with a new design she'd been working on for the radar she'd pulled off that Me-262 a week or so back. The Messerschmitt itself was long gone, packed off to God only knows where with all of her careful, cramped, handwritten notes. She kept her own copies, of course, which were stored in a lock box under a loose floorboard back in her quarters.

The hangar phone rang from its place on the wall, and Angie's head jerked up, toast bouncing. All the boys were out at the mess hall. Rolling her eyes, she set down the radar prototype and furiously jammed the remaining toast into her mouth as she strode over to the phone. She stuck the receiver between cheek and shoulder, and mumbled around the toast, “'Ello?”

“Command to H-4, this is Lieutenant Brody. Are you the senior mechanic on duty?”

Angie's chewing slowed, and she glanced around the otherwise empty hangar, “Uh...yeah?”

Technically not a lie. She scrubbed away the stinging memory of hydrogen peroxide and instead swallowed the last bit of scratchy toast.

“We need you over here immediately. Sub-Basement 6, Room 22.”

 _Sub-Basement 6?_ She didn't even know Command had a sub-basement, let alone six of them.

Lieutenant Brody's voice continued, “One of our agents back from recon brought an unknown device from their latest excursion in occupied France. We need the device stabilised at once.”

The smart thing to do would've been to direct the call to the mess hall for her superior. The smart thing to do would've been to then hang up and return to her tinkering.

“I'll be right over,” Angie said, then clapped the receiver back onto its faded yellow cradle.

Hey, she was a genius, but that didn't mean she was _smart_.

 

* * *

 

Turned out Command had eight sub-basements. _Eight_. What did an honest building need with eight secret sub-basements, anyway?

The elevator dinged and opened on every floor to reveal the same kind of clinical looking hallway, but with every level there were more and more guards lining the walls. They checked in, confirming her by identity card and phoning someone unknown who presumably gave all the orders, before turning a key and sending the elevator on its way. It went this way every level. She was sweating by the time she actually got to sub-basement six, and definitely _not_ in the good way.

Two guards escorted her to room 22 and shut the door behind her. Silence fell, and all four of the room's inhabitants looked up at her arrival. Three guys – one of whom was presumably Lieutenant Brody – and Peggy Carter.

If Peggy was surprised to see her, she didn't show it. Her expression stayed exactly the same, hard, steely, unapproachable. She looked just like she had that first night, when Angie helped fix her car – make-up expertly applied to conceal the dark circles under her eyes, jaw squared as though waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Angie raised one hand and gave a weak wave, “Hi. You rang?”

One of the guys, short and stocky with two brass squares glinting on his shoulders, straightened and said, “I asked for the senior mecha-”

“Thank you, Brody.” Peggy cut him off, flinty gaze never moving from where Angie still hovered near the doorway, “She'll do fine.”

Immediately Lieutenant Brody nodded sharply and said no more. Peggy gave a little gesture, and the other two snapped into motion, disappearing into a back room.

Ok, so Peggy was a senior officer. Captain? Major? To be perfectly honest Angie wasn't sure she really wanted to know. She'd preferred thinking of Peggy as 'Mysterious and Pretty Lady-Officer of Indeterminate Rank.' This was all getting a little too real, if you asked her.

At last Peggy's intense scrutiny swung somewhere else, and Angie felt like she could finally breathe again. Peggy moved to clear the centre table of maps and diagrams and papers, “I presume Lieutenant Brody explained what you'll be doing here today?”

“Something about an unknown device from France?” Angie reached up to scratch at where the pink handkerchief was tightest, tugging at a bobby pin against her scalp.

Peggy nodded, curt, “Howard Stark, our usual consultant in these matters, is off gallivanting in Australia of all places, and -”

“Ohh! What part of Australia?” Angie asked, eager.

From his place near the opposite wall Lieutenant Brody stared at her in a mixture of horror and incredulity, the kind of look you gave someone who had a death wish. Suddenly Angie wished she'd kept a tighter leash on her big mouth.

On the other hand Peggy merely cocked her head and said, “Melbourne.” When Angie did not press for more details – though she wanted to – Peggy continued, “We just need you to stabilise the device until one of our specialists is available to take a look at it.”

Angie tried to make her shrug appear as nonchalant as possible, “Sure. No problem.”

The back door opened once more, and the two guys from earlier reappeared, carrying on a tray between them an elongated, rhombus-shaped wedge of shiny metal. As soon as it came into the room, it filled the air with an eerie humming, like a seething drone. Angie had heard something like that once before: when Frankie kicked a beehive the summer of '32 down in West Milford.

Slowly, carefully they lowered it to the centre table and backed away. Transfixed, Angie looked it, unblinking.

What she did next was dumb, she knew. But she'd never seen anything quite like _this_ before. All sleek and churning. She wanted to run her hands all over it. She wanted to lovingly lay every piece around in a neat circle while she sat in the middle of it all and just tinkered for hours.

So, of course, she plopped herself down in the nearest seat, and pulled the device into her lap.

A collective sharp inhalation hissed through the room from Peggy, Brody, and the others, but Angie was already prying the top of the device off and peering inside. Her curious fingers turned the contraption every which way while she muttered to herself, every now and then reaching in to poke and prod at some wiring. She eyeballed it until she was confident she knew what did what and went where. Relatively. Then with a confident flick she reached inside, gave a twist, and the distinctive churning hum slowly faded away.

“There!” she announced with a pleased smile, “It's off. Now I can take it apart and -”

Peggy's hands slammed down onto the table so hard the legs rattled, and Angie jumped with a squeak, “Do you have any idea how incredibly boneheaded that was?” Her voice was low, gravelly, dangerous, and her eyes burned.

Still clutching the device, Angie gulped, “Uh – Sorry?”

“You were told to stabilise it until an expert arrived! An _expert!_ ” Peggy repeated with a snarl, “You could have blown us all to bits or worse!”

Angie's brow knit in confusion, “But it's just a long-range transmitter!”

There followed a pause, during which Peggy blinked at her, “What?” she growled.

“Well, I mean,” Angie babbled, pointing down into the device's belly, “It's fancy, I'll give you that. Probably has a range that'll reach the moon. Heck! Further! But it's not explosive or nothing.”

Dark eyes narrowing, Peggy drew a deep steadying breath. In unison the three junior officers took a surreptitious step back. Angie steeled herself for the worst. Hopefully they'd send her body back to her poor Ma and Dad. Or what was left of her, anyway.

After a long tense moment, Peggy straightened, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, “Next time just follow orders,” she sighed. She looked more tired than angry now, and she waved Angie away without looking at her, “You're dismissed.”

Even though the device was off, Angie lowered it so warily it didn't make a sound when it touched the table. Lieutenant Brody skirted around Peggy to open the door, and Angie shot him a grateful, tremulous smile.

The whole way back up the elevator and all the way to the hangar, Angie couldn't keep her hands from trembling.

She hadn't felt this shaken up since Dad found her kissing Giovanna Arrighetti under the mistletoe the Christmas of '33.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Angie had to trade three packs of cigarettes, a collop of bacon, and a jar of home made marmalade she'd been given by the farmer's wife down the road after she'd repaired their tractor. Of course she'd never let it slip that the only reason she'd originally been passing by when the family was struck by sudden mechanical failure was to chat up their attractive daughter. Not that it got her anywhere, mind you. Still, it'd been worth a shot. And the dinner they'd forced her to stay for was good enough to bring her near to tears.

Turned out their dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter, Rebecca, was straight as an arrow. Nice girl, though. A bit simple, but warm and pleasant, and always ready with a fresh batch of biscuits and a glass of milk for the family's favourite RAE visitor.

Of course she could've just gotten what she needed from Stan without needing to barter with anything. But just the thought of taking too much advantage of his kindness left her feeling vaguely ill. So she forced the cigarettes, bacon, and marmalade into his hands in spite of his vehement protests.

Stan was a great guy, really. Useful. His real name was Stanisław, and his last name was an unpronounceable tangle of letters. Polish fellow. Test pilot. But he always introduced himself to English-speakers as just plain 'Stan.' Except when he tried insisting that Angie call him Staszek instead – apparently it's what his family back home called him? Or his sweetheart? It was difficult to say. His English was not so good, but Angie didn't mind. Reminded her of home, to be honest.

Not that she would ever admit to being homesick.

The first time she met Stan he'd been gearing up to fly an experimental Manchester in front of a group of VIPs from Air Ministry and Bomber Command. Angie had gone to her superior with the warning that she'd taken a good look at the brackets that retained the rocket pack, and that they were definitely fatigued. Predictably she'd just been brushed aside, so instead she went straight to the test pilot.

Stan had listened to her with that kind of singular intensity people who didn't speak the language had, and – miracle of miracles – he'd actually taken her warning to heart. She liked him immediately.

Sure enough, when the demonstration came around, Stan opened up the engines, pushed the rocket operating button, and all hell broke loose. The bracket failed. Two packets of twelve rockets – which were designed to fire in pairs, one each side, in sequence – all fired uncontrollably when the cables were short circuited. Thanks to her warning, Stan was able to kill the engine before _all_ of the rockets shot through the propellers, where they were chopped to pieces. He should have been blown to bits, but instead he was able to walk away from the whole ordeal without a single scratch.

Pure luck, the VIPs called it.

Yeah. Sure it was.

Still, she didn't mind that much in the long run. From that day on Stan would frequently show up at the hangar with a bundle of flowers in hand, wanting nothing more than an arm-in-arm walk around the Comms building, a chaste kiss on the cheek, and an opportunity to practise his English. He never complained about her over exuberance, or the way she talked too much with her hands, or the grease-stains her fingers left on his nice jacket in spite of all her precautions. In fact he was always more than happy to chime in with lessons of his own, giving careful instruction on radio calls, and how to best restart an engine after it stalled in the air. Interesting things. Useful things.

Besides, it was good practice to have a guy strung along on the side. Kept people off her back.

Now, though, she hoped people didn't talk too much about them. She tried racking her brain to see if she remembered spotting a certain someone when she and Stan took their walks. Couldn't for the life of her recall – and she was sure she couldn't forget that face. Or those legs.

It was a fairly typical evening, as far as Angie's evenings went. The hangar was empty but for her, but even she was starting to feel the fatigue seep into her bones, begging that she crawl into bed soon. She ignored her bones, of course. What did they know?

She swayed a little on her feet, and the step ladder beneath her gave a warning creak. Heaving a sigh, she draped herself over the forward fuselage of the Focke-Wulf Fw A-7 she was working on, resting her head on the cool metal.

Ok, maybe her bones had the right idea after all.

From the left, there came a clearing of someone's throat. Angie turned to find none other than Peggy Carter standing there, balancing a block of Cadbury milk-chocolate, a rhubarb pie, and a bottle of schnapps. Her necktie had been tugged loose, the first button of her crisp white shirt had been undone, and her make-up was starting to look a little faded.

“Imagine my surprise,” Peggy began, “I go out to the parking lot after a rather long and arduous few days to find that someone has broken into my car, but instead of taking anything they left me gifts.” She swished the schnapps around in its bottle, and waggled the pie dish with her hand.

Angie clucked her tongue and shook her head, “Some thieves just don't know the art of subtlety, I swear.”

“Just so you know,” the wicked little grin that Peggy gave made Angie's mouth go dry, “I don't take my meals alone.”

“Well, aren't you in luck,” Angie waved her over, wiping her hands down with a nearby spare rag, and descending the ladder, “Bring it here, English.”

Peggy kicked off her heels and dropped herself onto the mat Angie used when she needed to lie on her back and work on an undercarriage. Once upon a time the mat had been blue, but now it was an indeterminate faded grey mixed with blackish grease stains.

A few of Peggy's bobby pins were loose, but rather than fix them she just tucked the offending curl behind one ear, and unscrewed the cap on the schnapps. She took a long draught, made a face at the sweetness, then passed the bottle to Angie, “You look like you need a drink as much as I do, to be perfectly honest.”

“You really know how to compliment a girl, don't you?” Angie drawled and plopped herself beside Peggy. Not that she was denying it. In fact, she threw back just as big a swig.

Peggy hummed, a non-committal, amused noise, “You wouldn't happen to have any cutlery, would you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Angie reached around and, completely deadpan, handed her a spanner.

With a snort of laughter, Peggy batted it away, “We'll just have to use our fingers, then.” And without further ado she peeled away the protective layer of cellophane, and dug out a hefty lump of pie.

Thumbing the label on the bottle, Angie heaved a sigh and admitted, “I'm sorry.”

“What for?” Peggy mumbled around a mouthful of rhubarb and crust, cheek bulging.

“The other day in sub-basement six. I should have listened to you more carefully. I should have followed orders. Hence all this.” She shook the bottle, its contents sloshing.

Something gleamed in Peggy's eyes, then was gone again. Rather than reply, she held out her hand for the schnapps, trading it for the pie dish. After another drink, she finally said, “Sometimes I forget how accustomed I've grown to people obeying my orders without question.”

“So,” Angie plucked a misshaped piece of pie from the dish, “you're not mad at me?”

“No. Not any more.”

Wincing, Angie shifted her weight, anxious. When she looked over, though, Peggy was watching her with an expression that – while inscrutable – wasn't angry in the slightest. Suddenly she wished she were wearing something a bit more _more_. Something even vaguely resembling stylish. There Peggy was, sitting so near Angie could reach out and touch her, looking perfectly rakish even when running off fumes and two hours of sleep. And Angie was wearing grease-stained over-sized overalls, wisps of hair escaping the handkerchief and clinging to her temples.

She had brought a few dresses across the pond with her. Not that she got the opportunity to wear them much. She liked to go dancing just as much as any other girl, but dances were few and far between when you were grappling some meatheads for even a half-way decent plane. Stan had taken her out dancing, but that had been a few months ago. Her colleagues had certainly never seen her wear anything besides the standard issue overalls that dangled from her narrow shoulders like a tent from the Russian Circus. Heck, they probably thought she slept in them.

Which was _definitely false_.

Ok, maybe only a little bit false. But unlike the boys at least she washed her overalls.

She wondered what Peggy would look like in a dress. Red. Clinging. And-

“Hand that schnapps back over,” Angie said abruptly.

They swapped the bottle between them until only a few fingers swirled around the bottom, talking, laughing. Over half of the pie disappeared – though Angie insisted Peggy save the chocolate for herself later – and they ended up leaning against one of the Focke-Wulf's wheels, legs outstretched. Half-asleep and buzzing with alcohol, Angie still couldn't keep herself still, her left foot rocking on its heel. She tried not to think too much about the warmth of Peggy's shoulder and hip pressed up against her side.

“Did you always want to be a mechanic?” Peggy asked suddenly. The hair she had tucked behind her ear a few hours previously now fell in a wave, casting a shadow across her face.

Angie snorted a graceless laugh and shook her head, “No way! I wanted to be an actress.”

“Well, you certainly have a predisposition for the theatrical,” Peggy said dryly, and yelped when Angie pinched her side.

Grinning, Angie retorted, “Never would have pegged you as the ticklish type, English.”

Peggy's eyes narrowed, but her lips still canted up in a smile, “Tell anyone, and I'll have to have you killed.” Then she sniggered, and it was inelegant and throaty and shouldn't have had any appeal whatsoever, yet it did. “Why acting?” she asked, drowsy, head dropping onto Angie's shoulder.

Swallowing past an obstruction in her throat, Angie's teeth clenched. She really was too tipsy to be having this conversation. And yet -

“My brother, Frankie.”

Peggy said nothing, and Angie took it as a gap to continue. Her foot jiggled, no longer lazy but agitated, “When we were young he would always play dress-up with me, and we'd both be knights. Cast-iron pots for helms. Spatulas for swords. That sort of thing. And when we were older he'd practise lines with me.” She breathed deeply, “He was the golden child. The only boy of the lot of us. The seventh son of a seventh son. All that bunk. Died in Operation Torch. Y'know – that North Africa one? Never saw his body neither. All we got was a flag and box of shiny brass bits. My folks still won't talk about it. That's why I came, really. Couldn't just sit around at home feeling useless.”

Afraid of the reaction she would receive for being so open, Angie looked over to find Peggy fast asleep on her shoulder. With a huff of watery, incredulous laughter, Angie shook her head and sniffled.

She should've known better than to drink and talk about Frankie. Always made her maudlin.

“Come on,” she flicked Peggy's nose, light, playful, “You should get some real sleep.”

Scrunching up her face, Peggy mumbled something surly and unintelligible.

“Yeah, me too,” Angie said.

When she jostled her shoulder a bit, Peggy's head lurched up. She blinked slowly up at Angie, then her expression softened into a smile. Heavy-lidded, her eyes flickered to Angie's mouth, and she leaned forward. Angie's breath stuttered in her chest as their noses brushed.

A sharp inhalation, and Peggy wrenched back. She clambered to her feet, propping herself up with one hand slapping down on the Focke-Wulf's nose.

“I-” Peggy cleared her throat, looking anywhere but at her, “I should go to bed.”

“You probably shouldn't drive,” Angie pointed out, rising to her own feet.

“I won't,” Peggy staggered a bit as she stepped back into her high-heeled shoes, “I'll sleep in my office. I have a cot there.”

Of course she did.

Peggy bent down to gather what remained of the food and drink, and for a moment Angie thought she was going to leave without another word. When Peggy did turn around to address her however, her jaw was set, her gaze solemn, “Thank you, Angie.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Angie gave a little wave and felt incredibly foolish, “Goodnight.”

Peggy left, and it was the only time she'd ever heard Peggy's footsteps make any noise. Clacking unevenly against the cement slab. Fading into the night. Then nothing.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild plot appears! Author uses 'CONFUSION!' It has no effect.

When Angie slept, she slept like the dead. The Palio di Siena could storm around her bed, and she might roll over and make an irritated noise in her sleep. Maybe.

It should also be known that Angie never took very kindly to sleep interrupted.

There was no 'maybe' about that. It was just plain fact.

Her quarters were located in the E-block down the quad, where there was a phone in each room. Something about emergency procedures? Truth be told she hadn't been listening much when her grumpy overweight superior, Reynolds, had informed her in that droning voice of his. He could put a rowdy bordello to sleep just by opening his mouth.

But who cared, really? It meant she got a phone all to herself, if ever she needed it. Not that she used it very often – except on special occasions when she rang back home – but that wasn't the point.

The point was: she wasn't particularly pleased when it rang in the middle of night.

The first time it rang, she slept right through it. Mouth open, snoring lightly, limbs all a-tangle in the bedsheets, night-gown riding up her thighs.

The second time it rang, she tossed and grumbled and pulled a spare pillow over her head, but the telephone went unanswered.

The third time it rang, she threw a shoe at it, and her drawl of “Shut up!” was muffled through her pillow. Again, it went unanswered.

Then five minutes later someone was knocking on the door.

That did it.

Angie got up and stomped across the room, floorboards springy under her step. She tripped over one of the many random metal constructions that littered her floor – some of her more delicate pieces of work she didn't want to leave behind in the hangar – and jammed her toe into another. Swearing, she hopped the rest of the way, and when she yanked the door open she grumbled, “Jesus H. Christ! What do you _want?_ ”

She thought it would be Reynolds saying that her Ma wouldn't stop telephoning at the wrong hour again, and that her call had inevitably been put through to his room when Angie plain refused to answer. Or someone else. Certainly not Peggy Carter, looking as picture perfect as always.

How on earth did she do it? It was one o'clock in the morning. Did the woman never sleep?

“I need you to come with me.” Peggy said.

That's it. No preamble. No: _'Hi, Angie! Really enjoyed our almost-date and almost-kiss_ _the other_ _night!_ _So sorry about not contacting you for two whole weeks._ _How're you?'_

Just: ' _You need to come with me_.' All curt and officious-like. And pretty. Frankly, how dare she.

Rubbing her eyes, Angie yawned and leaned on the door frame, “How the heck do you know where I live, English?”

“It's in your file,” Peggy brushed the question away, then forged on, “More importantly: the device spontaneously turned itself on.”

It took a moment for Angie to figure out exactly what Peggy was talking about. Then her eyes widened and most of the indignation drained from her. Most of it.

Geeze. Spill your guts to a gorgeous girl about your brother dying in the war, then almost get kissed by her, and next thing you know she's waking you up at some ungodly hour of the morning to dismantle a potential international threat.

“Oh. Ohh! _That_ device! Yeah, ok – uh – let me throw on some clothes first and I'll-”

But Peggy cut her off, brisk, no-nonsense, “There's no time. Just grab a robe and follow me.” Peggy's voice suddenly dropped its brusque tone, softening, and she looked at her with this little tilt of her head that sent a stray curl across her cheek, “I need you, Angie. Now.”

Aw, _hell_.

What's a nice girl supposed to say to that, huh?

Next thing she knew she was being pushed out the door of her building, still tying the belt of her robe shut. Peggy kept having to stop and wait for her entourage to catch up as Angie made her way through the drizzle. And then she'd give Angie this _look_ for walking slowly.

Easy for her to say. She wasn't wearing pink fuzzy slippers.

Pink fuzzy slippers were _not_ meant to be worn over sharp gravel.

The guards on each sub-basement level didn't even look twice when the doors of the elevator pinged and slid open to reveal a brook-no-nonsense Officer and a bedraggled mechanic in her night things. One with her arms squarely behind her back, the other shivering and rubbing her hands together. Both of them glowering.

By the time they got to room 22, Angie was just about ready to stab someone with a fork. Apparently Command had never heard of central heating, and her fingertips were starting to go blue.

That was only a small exaggeration. She really was very cold.

The device was already on the centre table, humming and churning away, but this time it had a small blue light ticking from one corner. Lieutenant Brody and another man – tall Indian fellow, whose name Angie didn't know, but whom she recognised from last time – just stood around the device, looking incredibly uneasy.

Oh, for the love of –

She'd _told_ them it wasn't explosive. Why did they look so darn worried?

The door shut behind them, and soon all four of them were standing around the table. Nobody made a move, and the only noise that filled the room was the rhythmic drone from the sleek metal box.

“Well?” Peggy asked, clearly frustrated.

Angie put her hands on her hips, “Well, what?”

“Aren't you going to do something?”

“Oh, you mean you _don't_ want me to stabilise it this time?” Angie knew she sounded petulant, but she didn't really care. Not at this hour, anyway. “You're going to need to clarify. And speak extra slow. I'm not awake yet.”

A sharp inhalation hissed through Peggy's teeth, like she was biting down on words she would regret before they could leave her mouth. When she smiled, it looked pained, like she was trying to pass a kidney stone, “Miss Martinelli, won't you please be a dear and figure out why this enemy device spontaneously turned itself on?”

Angie gave her a flat stare, then sighed. Rolling her eyes, her chin jutted up and she glanced all around the room. Muttering expletives under her breath, Angie flitted around the room, snatching up various materials. A section of cardboard box. A magnet that held papers up to a metal wall fixture. A copper wire and an old battery from one of the desk drawers. She snatched a lighter from Lieutenant Brody, and he didn't even complain. Just held up his hands in surrender and let her have it.

When Angie sat down at the table with her arms full of sundry, Peggy held out a cigarette. Angie gave her a puzzled frown, and Peggy just pointed to the lighter, “I assumed you wanted one of these?”

Shrugging, Angie took it and stuck it between her lips. “No, actually,” she mumbled around the cigarette as she flicked the lighter with her thumb, “But I'll take it anyway.”

Slowly puffing away, cigarette bobbing from her lips, Angie began to twist the copper wire into a coil. Her hands worked lightning-quick, pulling other wires from the device and laying them on the table, taping the magnet and battery in place, and arranging the cardboard so that it stood on a small tripod formation, suspended from the desk.

When she touched the wires from the device to the appropriate places, the rudimentary speaker she'd whipped up began to transmit noise.

It was a series of jumbled numbers in sequence, delivered in rapid-fire German. Peggy snatched up a pencil and flipped over a used piece of paper to a clean page, scribbling furiously.

“Luthra, get me a map of Italy,” she ordered without looking up, brows knit into furrows. The tall Indian junior officer with the smart mustache rifled through a stack of papers, pulling out a map and unfolding it on the table, “Do you think you could contact the 10th in time to meet us?” Peggy asked him, still jotting down numbers as she heard them.

“Shouldn't be a problem, ma'am,” he replied, “They've just been deployed to the Adriatic front.”

“Good, good.” Peggy murmured, sweeping her attention from the numbers to the map spread out in front of her. She began ticking off little 'x's with a smart flick of her pencil, “Just above the Gustav Line,” she threaded the 'x's together, moving from north of Anzio to Pescara, “According to this code, the device will receive more transmissions at these locations in -” she jotted down another series of numbers, “-less than a week.”

Then she looked up at nobody in particular, speaking more to herself than anybody else in the room, “They think the Germans still have the device.” She smiled and shook her head, “Well, a bit of luck at last. Brody. Luthra.” she snapped, suddenly assertive, gesturing sharply at them, “Gear up. We're going to Italy.”

“Brody. Luthra. _And_ Martinelli,” Angie said, still sitting at the table, arms crossed.

Peggy stopped, turned, and stared. Then she laughed, that kind of incredulous 'tip your head back to reveal your throat' laugh. If Angie weren't so busy crossing her arms and trying to look severe in pink fuzzy slippers and a nightgown, she might have indulged in a bit of lewd thoughts about the smooth skin of Peggy's neck. As it was, Angie had no difficulties keeping her eyes where they should be.

Ok, maybe a few difficulties. One or two. Maximum.

“That's never going to happen,” Peggy said once her laughter died down.

Angie stamped the butt of the cigarette onto the table, leaving dark scorch marks on the wood, and shot back, “I'm the only one in four countries with the brains to handle this sort of tech. What happens if the device doesn't work, huh? You gonna fly up one of your experts from Madagascar or wherever Stark is these days?”

“All we need to do is be at the given locations at the given times, and the device will transmit,” Peggy countered, and gestured to the cardboard speaker Angie had manufactured in a few minutes, “We can plug in a real speaker to the set up you've already given us.”

Angie glared at her in disbelief. Then she reached over into the device and – _flick, flick, fzzzzzzzt!_ – She brushed her hands off, feeling smug, “There. Now what's your big fancy plan, _ma'am_?” She drawled the honorific.

Both Brody and Luthra's mouths hung open. A vein pulsed at Peggy's temple; she looked like she was going to have an honest to God stroke.

“Gentlemen,” Peggy's voice was soft, deadly, and she didn't move her withering glare from Angie, “would you please give me and Miss Martinelli a moment alone?”

Angie had never seen two grown men exit a room faster in her whole life.

Advancing on where Angie sat, Peggy's fists clenched and unclenched as she towered, “I could have you court-martialed,” she hissed.

“Fine.” Angie shrugged and sank lower into her seat, feet sprawled out under the table, “Go ahead. See if I care.”

Grinding her teeth, Peggy snapped, “What happened to ' _Oh, gee-whiz! I should have followed orders, Peggy! I'm so sorry!_ ” She even put on a terrible New Yorker accent.

“I don't sound like that!”

“That is exactly what you sound like.”

“Yeah, well, at least I don't lead my junior workers on, and then go all cold-shoulder on them!”

There. She'd said it. Now it was all out in the open.

Peggy shifted, looking uncomfortable, “We shouldn't let our,” she stumbled over the words and her gaze darted away, “ _personal feelings_ interfere with important tactical operations.”

“Personal feelings.” Angie repeated, deadpan, “You really want to go there, English? You came onto me!”

“I-!” Peggy spluttered, “-did no such thing!”

“Tell that to the judge,” Angie muttered, sullen.

She was tired of this. All this. Being jerked around on a chain by fat-headed engineers and dangerously good-looking, dangerously clever officers. At least Stan was honest and well-intentioned and didn't avoid her after romantic sort-of-dates. That was more than she could say of _some_ people.

Peggy swore under her breath, and whirled around to pace the other side of the table. She moved like that tiger Angie saw in the Central Park Zoo during the spring of '37. Sleek and restless behind bars.

After a few long moments – during which time Angie pushed the cigarette butt around the table with her finger and refused to look at the other woman in the room – Peggy rounded on her and growled, “Don't make me regret this.”

Gosh. Like Angie had never heard _that_ before.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **shoves literally all the plot into a single chapter**  
> It's fine. This is fine.

 

Angie had to hand it to Peggy. It was a slick plan. It really was. The kind of stuff books and epic poems are written about, yet do it little justice.

Too bad it didn't work out.

Well, that wasn't completely true. It did work. Until the very end. Then it failed spectacularly.

They landed in Western Italy by dodging German coastal patrol in a submarine. British V-class. 204 feet and 6 inches long, with a beam of 16 feet, 1 inch, and a draught of 15 feet, 3 inches. It had a 2 shaft diesel electric propulsion system, complete with 2 diesel generators and 2 electric motors that could clock in at 825 horsepower. It could crack 10 knots when submerged in water, and almost 12 when it was surfaced.

Not very fast at all really, especially in comparison to what Angie was used to working on, but then again they were used for very different purposes. That didn't stop her from pushing her way into the engine room and having a poke around – much to the dismay of the crew. Before she knew it, though, she'd befriended a young midshipman and the two were engaged in an animated discussion about the 533mm torpedoes. That was until Peggy had to physically peel Angie away from the engine room and drag her to a more appropriate area of the ship.

Angie may or may not have pouted a little after that. She refused to confirm or deny.

Though she stopped sulking quick-like when it came time to get dressed for their landing.

For that she and Peggy faced firmly in opposite directions in a designated changing room. Though Angie would be lying if she said she didn't sneak a peek at the smooth muscles of Peggy's back and shoulders in the little mirror hanging from the wall.

Not that she was a voyeur or nothing. But these were extenuating circumstances.

Besides Peggy definitely peeked as well. Admittedly with less staring and more subtlety.

When they finally washed ashore in skin-tight black tactical suits during the dead of night, they were greeted by a small party of native Italian partisans. Peggy greeted them politely in Italian, and all of them – including Angie – winced.

“What is it?” Peggy asked, still sopping wet.

“No offence, Pegs, but your Italian is pretty average,” Angie admitted, and patted Peggy on the back with a broad wet slap of her hand, “Just let me do most of the talking, yeah?”

Then it was Peggy's turn to pout, and pout she did. Excellently, if Angie had to admit it. Cutely, if the screws were really put to her. Though saying that would probably only make things worse.

Angie turned to the partisans and smiled before launching into genuine Tuscan accented Italian. They seemed to relax at that. One of them cracked a joke in rapid colloquial Italian that made the others laugh, and Peggy was tugging at Angie's sleeve and whispering sharply, “What did they say? I couldn't catch it.”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing!” Angie grinned at her.

Peggy's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Angie held up her hands, “My Ma is from Siena. My Dad's from Brindisi. Their English is not so good.” She waggled her hand and grimaced.

“Just,” Peggy slicked a lock of hair back that had fallen into her eyes, “get us to the checkpoint. We don't have time for your little family reunion!”

Rolling her eyes, Angie turned back to the partisans. Soon they were dry and changed into spare clothes – not particularly clean, but she supposed there were more important things than clean clothes at the moment – and given a utility vehicle as a means of transportation. It wasn't that she minded dirty clothes. Heck, she spent most of her days covered in engine grease. But at least engine grease was honest. These clothes just smelled like the back of the Italian's truck, which reeked of goat and urine. 

As they trundled along the road, the dawn creeping over the horizon ahead of them, Angie snarked, “Real glamorous life you lead.”

Peggy arched an eyebrow and continued driving, “This is nothing. You should have seen me at Kārsava back in '42.”

“I don't even know where that is.”

“Latvia.”

“You're right,” Angie drawled, “This is already starting to sound like an improvement.”

Peggy actually smiled at that.

The first few checkpoints went flawlessly. They snuck up to the designated locations, received the transmissions; Peggy jotted down everything in a small notebook, and they left. It wasn't until the fourth checkpoint that they encountered a hiccup in their plans.

Two German soldiers, stumbling from one glass of wine too many, came upon their location on accident right outside of L'Aquila. Angie was getting the device ready for transmission, when she felt Peggy's hand on her shoulder. She looked up, but Peggy was staring off into the night, gaze focused. Then without a word she turned and kicked the device into a nearby bush, yanking Angie to her feet.

“Hey! What's the-”

Peggy held a finger to her lips and tried dragging Angie into the shadow of a tree, but before they could hide two soldiers rounded the corner. The soldiers grasped each others shoulders and slurred as they walked, and when they saw Peggy and Angie one of them gave a shout in guttural broken Italian.

After a few moments of ridiculous flirting – Angie was grateful the Germans were so drunk, else they would've noticed how much her hands shook – Peggy had the two soldiers flat on their backs and unconscious.

“Give us a hand,” Peggy grunted as she grabbed one by the boots and began to tug him into the bushes.

“Jesus H. Christ, Pegs,” Angie muttered, picking up the other soldier's feet and following Peggy, “I thought we were goners.”

“Far from it,” depositing her soldier in a thicket, Peggy brushed off her hands and fished out the device from low-slung branches, “Which is more than I can say about our speakers.”

With a solid kick into the soldier's backside for good measure, Angie wandered over to where Peggy stood, “Lemme see.”

Peggy handed over the speakers with a reproachful glare, “The poor man is unconscious, Angie, and will likely have the worst headache of his life tomorrow. Kicking him wasn't necessary.”

But Angie just ignored her and turned the speakers over in her hands, “Darn,” she whispered, “You really did a number on these. Do you have adamantium-toed boots or something?”

“Never mind that,” Peggy said brusquely, “We have two minutes until the next transmission. Can you fix them?”

“No. But I can rig up something else to do the job instead.” Angie chewed on her lip, “You still have that hand-held transceiver?”

“I need that to communicate with the 10th when we get to the coast,” Peggy hissed.

“The _other_ one. Geeze.”

Peggy blinked. For a moment she weighed their options, then pulled it out of her breast pocket and handed it to Angie. It was risky, using their emergency radio reserved for talking to the submarine on the other coast should anything go awry in their plans; they both knew that. They just didn't have much choice in the matter. Ripping open the casing, Angie wired up the hand-held transceiver in time for the next transmission.

Afterwards, when she looked up, it was to find Peggy watching her with an inscrutable expression, pencil poised over her notebook, “We make a good team.”

“Yeah,” Angie gave her a weak smile, which Peggy returned. Then she joked, “The war would've been over by now if you'd recruited me as your partner ages ago.”

At that Peggy's expression went melancholy, though she tried to veil it with a broader smile. Their travels hadn't exactly been filled with gossip and chatter, but Peggy didn't speak much after that. Through the night they worked, until they approached the last checkpoint near Pescara in the grey pre-dawn.

“Alright, Luthra,” Peggy spoke into the hand-held transceiver as they knelt on a ridge overlooking an airstrip by the sea, “Give me everything you've got.”

Luthra's voice crackled through the transceiver, “Right away, ma'am.”

The sound of a probing attack along the whole sector had the Germans scrambling. Alarms blared and soldiers milled about, thinking the Allies were launching preparatory bombardments. Peggy never seemed to blink as she watched the ensuing chaos of Germans rushing into high alert. Then a gap appeared straight through to the Adriatic sea, and she grabbed Angie's sleeve and tugged, “Let's go!”

And that's when everything went wrong.

“No no no!” Peggy hissed and swore under her breath. They'd been sprinting along unseen for a good ten minutes, and the shore was in sight where their submarine was waiting for them. Peggy slid on her knees to kneel behind a low stone wall, pulling Angie along with her, “Not that way, you idiots!”

Meanwhile Angie panted for breath, clutching a stitch in her side. Exercise was definitely not her thing. Who liked running for running's sake anyway? Madmen, that's who.

“What's wrong?” she gasped, peeking over the top of the wall.

A bullet whizzed by her head. With a squeak she dropped back down.

“That's what's wrong!” Peggy reached into the pack strapped across her back and pulled out pieces of dark sleek metal and wood. By the time she was done assembling the Sten mark III, chips of stone were flying from the wall, and Angie was whispering prayers under her breath.

A pause in the barrage, and Peggy sat up to return fire, “Grab the transceiver!” she barked at Angie as she continued shooting, “See if Luthra can get a hold of our sub!”

Grappling with the transceiver at Peggy's belt, Angie jammed her thumb down on the button and her voice trembled, “Uh, Luthra? You there?”

“What's the situation?” Luthra asked.

“Very bad!” Angie tried to clear her throat of any quaver with very little effect, “Our communications with the sub are down.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Waiting for him to return with good news, Angie bit down on her lower lip so hard she was sure it would bleed. She had never been so aware of her own heartbeat, racing so hard her vision blurred.

Finally Luthra spoke through the hand-held, “They can meet you three kilometres north of their current position.”

Peggy cursed loudly and ducked down for cover. As bullets continued to rain down on them, she snatched the transceiver from Angie and barked, “We don't have time for that! I need you to draw them off my back! We'll make a getaway on our own!”

“Can't do that, ma'am!” Luthra's voice crackled over the radio, “What would the Cap do if he were still with us? Skin me alive if I left his best girl behind, that's what!”

“I'll skin you alive myself!” Peggy shouted into the radio, “Now go! That's an order!”

“What about _us_?” Angie hissed in her ear.

Peggy popped up over their cover to fire another spray of bullets at the encroaching enemy, then she ducked back down. “Can you fly one of those?” she jerked her head.

Behind them sat a small fleet of planes, and beyond stretched a runway.

Angie groaned, “Technically?”

“What do you mean: _technically_?”

“Well...” Angie trailed off.

She'd gotten a few lessons in a variety of different planes from Stan back at Farnborough. He'd even let her take off and land a few times, which apparently was the hardest part. And she hadn't crashed the plane or anything. Still, she only had about 10 hours on her record – and that was being generous.

“Oh, bloody hell!” Peggy swore, ducking to avoid a hailstorm of bullets and changing out her magazine, “Can you fly the damn thing or not?”

Angie pressed herself so close to the wall she was in danger of becoming a permanent fixture, “Yeah, ok! I can fly one!”

“Good. Take these.” Peggy tossed her a pair of dark tinted glasses before resuming fire.

Fumbling with the glasses, Angie put them on and squinted, “I can barely see a thing.”

“That's the point.” Peggy put on her own pair of glasses, and reached into one of her spare ammunitions pockets pulling out a cylindrical grenade stamped with the name _STARK_ , “On my mark, cover your ears and run as fast as you can to the plane. I'll be right behind you. We'll have exactly three minutes to get it up in the air.” She turned and bared her teeth in a fierce grin, “Think you can manage?”

Angie just swallowed and nodded.

Ok, so, perhaps this whole 'antagonise Pretty and Mysterious Lady-Officer of Indeterminate Rank until she agrees to let you come on a dangerous mission to Nazi occupied Italy' plan wasn't her best idea to date.

Could be worse.

She couldn't think of exactly _how_ , but she was sure it could definitely be worse.

“ _Now!_ ”

Clapping her hands over her ears, Angie sprinted towards the planes. Even through the tinted lenses she could see the flash, and the concussive bang was enough to send her eardrums fleeing for the hills. She didn't look behind her, just ran until she was far enough away that she could tear her hands from her ears without fear of them bleeding, and look for the right plane to pilot.

All the planes were of mixed origin, and her eye combed through those she could see to find the one that had two seats and the best range. Most were single-seated, single-engined monoplane fighters and fighter bombers. Surely there must be –

There. A Consolidated B-24 Liberator. How had the Germans even gotten their hands on one of those? As far as she knew the KG 200 was located in Germany somewhere, not Italy.

Her gaze raked over it. Just a B-24 variant. Damn. She'd been hoping for a C-109. What she wouldn't give for the comfort of a capacity of almost 3,000 gallons of fuel...

Still. At least it had de-icing boots, and its leading edge slots had been removed. It would have to do.

“This one!” she shouted, wrenching open the cockpit and climbing inside.

By the time Peggy clambered in behind her and folded herself up in the co-pilot's seat, Angie was already finishing up punching the proper buttons to set off the shotgun starter. Her fingers shook so badly that she had to do it three times before both engines coughed into life. Taking the yoke into her left hand, she pushed on the throttle with her right until the engines roared and the plane lurched forward.

“When you said 'technically' did you actually mean 'not at all'?” Peggy shouted over the thundering engines, buckling herself in as fast as she could and jamming a headset over her ears.

“If you want to take the controls, then be my guest!” Angie yelled back. She still hadn't put her own headset on, though at least she was buckled into her seat. She'd worry about headsets later.

Rounding off the apron, she pointed the Liberator's nose down the runway. A storm of bullets pelted them, pinging off the plane in all directions. Seemed like their enemies had recovered from Stark's grenade.

Flaps up. Throttle to 2000 RPMs. Check instruments. Mixture set. Primer locked. Fuel pump on. Check. Check. Check.

Angie took a deep breath and shoved on the throttle. If Stan were there he would've yipped something in Polish and told her, “Not rough, Angela! Not rough!” But Stan wasn't there, and they were getting shot at by a dozen Nazis.

The plane hurtled down the runway, and she lifted the nose. She didn't realise she was holding her breath until the whiz of bullets faded slowly below them, and they were climbing rapidly into the sky, the ground dwindling. Then she released the breath in a swift single whoosh of air.

Motion to her right dragged her attention over, and she saw Peggy gesturing for her to put the headset on. When she'd done so, steadying the yoke with her knees, she heard Peggy say, “Are you alright?”

Angie nodded, gripping the yoke again tightly and staring straight ahead, “Yeah. I'm good. You?”

“Better now that we're out of that mess,” Peggy leaned over her seat to rummage around in the various pockets and compartments in the cockpit. With a victorious little exclamation, she held up some maps and began unfolding them for closer inspection, “Do you reckon we can make it to Orly Air Base?”

“Uh,” Angie glanced at the fuel gauge, did some quick calculations in her head, and shrugged, “Yeah?”

“You don't sound very convinced.”

Angie bristled, “Look. I'm an engineer, not a pilot. I fix planes. I build them. It's different on the ground.”

“I know. I'm-” even through the drone of the engines Angie could hear Peggy shift in her seat, flicking the corner of a map as she did so, “I didn't want to drag you into all this.”

Angie's laugh was dry and harsh, “Difficult to do when I'm being a stubborn twit.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Peggy sounded warm, amused even, “I think there was an equal amount of stubbornness going around.”

“Still going around, if you ask me.”

At that Peggy snorted, and between the whirr of the engines silence fell. During that time Angie steered the plane west, aiming to go right around the Alps. Mountains were nasty business, even when flying at over 10,000 feet. Best to steer clear, regardless of fuel.

In the quiet, Angie only had time to think. And that was never a good thing. She ran over the events that led up to this: her piloting a plane west over the Tyrrhenian sea, fleeing the impending dawn. Outmanoeuvred by Nazis. Shot at by Nazis. Peggy looking fierce and alive and more at home in the heat of battle than Angie had ever seen her before. Luthra yelling about 'The Cap' and -

Wait a tick...

“Aw, hell.” Angie swore.

“What is it?” Peggy's voice sounded concerned over the comms.

“Nothing!” she lied.

“Angie,” Peggy's voice was no longer concerned, but instead held a warning note, “Tell me.”

Angie sighed, then admitted, “I just realised – what Luthra said back there? About 'the Cap' and you?”

Silence.

And then –

“ _That's_ what you're thinking about?” Peggy barked, angry and incredulous, “I thought we were running out of fuel or something equally dire!”

“Hey! Can you really blame a girl? Those are some big shoes to fill!”

She would know. She saw him once at a USO show in Passaic back in early '41. And while she normally had other predilections well – _woof_.

“Look,” Peggy sighed into her mic, breath rasping over the comm channel, “now is not the time for this conversation.”

“Is there a time for this conversation?” Angie shot back.

“Yes,” Peggy snapped, “On the ground. Preferably alone. And preferably with dinner.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Did you just ask me out on a date?”

The radio crackled, and through it came a stream of unintelligible British grumblings.

Angie twisted her head around to peer at Peggy and press for more clarification, but her hands slipped on the controls, sending a violent jerk through the plane.

“Yes, I asked you out on a date! Are you happy?” Peggy yelped, “Now keep your eyes on the bloody sky, you imbecile!”

Feeling a little sheepish, Angie corrected their course. They cruised along without much incident, neither of them speaking. And then Angie cleared her throat and changed the subject, “Are you normally this nervous when flying?”

“No.” Peggy's response was so curt, Angie didn't have to look at her to feel the glare and the gritting of teeth, “Only when the pilot is greener than spring grass.”

“You're the one who told me to fly this garbage heap,” Angie grumbled. She thought she'd spoken softly enough that Peggy couldn't hear, but –

“Well, you're the one who insisted on tagging along. Aren't you so pleased you could be of assistance?” Peggy snipped dryly in return, “Consider it your comeuppance.”

“You'll be thanking me when we land.”

“Have you ever successfully landed before?”

“Of course I have!” Not a lie, but Angie was still proud her voice only cracked a little bit, “Smooth as a butterfly!”

Actually it had been more like a drunk beetle, scuttling and bouncing along the ground, legs wildly flailing on the runway. At least she hadn't wrecked the undercarriage.

Much.

“Lord help me,” Peggy muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Angie didn't answer. Instead she twisted her hands around the yoke. She tried not thinking too much about how this particular plane she was flying was famous for its high fuselage-mounted Davis wing, making it especially dangerous for belly landings. She also tried not thinking too much about the damage she'd seen to some of the less fortunate pilots who'd completely ripped apart the fuselage during a bad landing.

Thankfully, Peggy decided that now was perhaps not the best time to press, so instead she continued sitting ramrod straight and trying to keep her feet from touching the rudder pedals.

By the time they finally entered Allied occupied French airspace hours later, Angie was glancing nervously at the fuel gauge every few minutes. She'd been flying as economically as she knew how, and she was lucky enough to have picked the plane with excellent fuel efficiency – courtesy of the projected Model 31 twin engine and the high wings. Still, they hadn't exactly had time to top up on fuel before taking off from Italy. And while she wouldn't say it was grim, it was still worrying. At this rate she wouldn't have enough fuel to dally around the airstrip until she felt comfortable enough to land.

Orly was in sight, and it was nearing midday. Sweat slicked the yoke from where Angie's hands had been clenched in a white-knuckled grip for hours. Her wrists had started aching over Valence, and now they were narrow rods of dull pain. She hadn't slept in almost 48 hours, and she tried blinking and shaking her head to keep herself sharp.

Peggy's hand on her shoulder almost made her jump out of her skin, “You're doing great.”

Nodding furiously, Angie tried to deepen her breathing. _Nice and easy, Ange. Just like Stan taught you._

Speed dialled right down to 65 knots. Flaps down. Push forward on the yoke. Pull back throttle to idle. Nose back up.

If she lived through this, she was going to kiss Stan when she got back to Farnborough. Properly.

It was as smooth a landing as she could make it, which was to say not very smooth at all. The plane heaved on the runway, wheels swerving upon contact with bitumen. Teeth clenched, Angie over-corrected and – _snap!_

Well, shit. There went the wheels.

Sparks and scraps of metal flew up from the undercarriage, and the aircraft screeched to a grinding halt three-quarters down the runway. Angie was still gripping the yoke in her hands, staring straight ahead, and breathing hard.

Beside her, however, Peggy untangled herself from the harness and leapt to her feet. She ripped off first her own headset, and then Angie's. Then she grabbed Angie by the harness and kissed her right there in the cockpit.

Well, then.

“Couldn't even wait for the first date, huh?” Angie asked, a little breathless, when Peggy pulled away.

Peggy's fingers curled at Angie's ear and jaw, “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

“Actually-” But that was as far as she got before Peggy's mouth silenced her.

Ok, so maybe Peggy's plan hadn't been so bad after all. Could be worse, she thought, then let out a startled gasp as Peggy's hand slid down her neck to toy at her collarbone.

Could be much worse.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Angie had only ever seen Peggy smoke once. Oh, sure. Peggy carried around more cigarettes than anyone else she knew, but she never personally smoked them. Only used them for barter and bribery. Except for that one time.

They had finally made it back to Farnborough less than a week after they'd landed at Orly, and Peggy was waiting outside the door to the Major-General's office, hat tucked under one arm wrapped tightly around her midriff. From her other hand there dangled a cigarette, bleeding smoke into the air. Earlier Angie had seen her flee into Command to escape from a platoon of thirty cadets, who were all forced to salute when she passed by. Now that she was somewhat hidden, she still looked incredibly grumpy, forced into full kit dress uniform, with every junior ranking personnel saluting as they passed. After the eleventh time this happened, Peggy turned her back on the hallway so that she was facing the wall and blatantly pretended to not see anyone.

They still saluted. She just didn't return the favour.

Angie was walking down the opposite end of the hall to turn in her own report of events in Italy, but Peggy had been briefed – which Angie would later learn was a nice word for 'interrogated' – and had just returned from a meeting with some hot-shot politicians with the Major-General. Hence the dress uniform.

And, boy, did she look smart in it. Angie had never seen so many medals and ribbons on one person in her life. Unless they were in a film, that is. Though, to be fair, it wasn't very often officers wore their full kit. They hated it. Especially Peggy, if her sour expression was any indication.

Peggy raised the lit cigarette to her lips – painted a violent red – and when she inhaled, the burning pinprick of ash reflected in her eyes. In that moment they looked dark and haunted, those eyes, as though she'd seen and done too many regretful, ineffable things behind closed doors. Then she looked up and caught Angie standing down the hallway, watching her, and suddenly Angie realised her mistake.

Dark and haunted? What a laugh.

They looked dangerous, burning with a lurid hunger.

She thought she'd seen Peggy looking intense before. Perhaps that time she'd smashed in those two German soldiers' heads back in Italy, teeth bared in a snarl. But this was different. Angie had seen that look only once before. Back home. The summer of '35. When one of her fool cousins got tangled up in some bad Mafia business, and she'd been unlucky enough to be walking down the street as he was visited by Lucky Luciano. She'd accidentally brushed Luciano's shoulder when they'd passed each other on the side walk, and he'd just – glanced over at her. That was all. Just like Peggy glanced at her now.

She wasn't quite sure which one frightened her more.

Actually she was sure. She just didn't want to admit it.

Peggy was stabbing out her cigarette in a nearby tray and walking towards her, and while her eyes had lost their pinning force, Angie still felt like she was a deer caught in the hunter's stare. Still, she mustered up a smile and asked when Peggy was in range, “How'd your briefing go?”

Immediately Peggy's gaze went hot and stormy as that heat wave back in '36. The muscles at her jaw bunched, “Can you believe what they did with our intel? Gave it to Clark, of all people! And now he's heading towards Rome to break the back of the 10th German Army – even though it's an open city – just because he wants to be known as the man who sacked Rome! What a massive cockhead!”

At the look on Angie's face, she reined herself in and apologised, “I'm sorry. I needed someone to rant to, and you were the first person I-” she stopped, and all self-assurance seemed to drain from her, “I'll leave you be.”

She turned to leave, but Angie sighed and waved for her to come back, “Don't go. Geeze. I asked, didn't I?”

Reluctant, Peggy returned, looking as sheepish as Angie had ever seen her. A junior officer passed, and saluted. With a heavy sigh, she returned it with a half-hearted salute of her own, and the officer was on his way.

Angie looked at her curiously, “Do they all have to salute you?”

“If they're a lower rank, yes.”

“Yeah, but-” Angie paused as yet another junior officer snapped to attention, and Peggy glowered. When he left, she continued, “Do they have to do it all the time?”

“That's contextual. In the Command building they usually only have to salute me once in the morning,” Peggy sighed, and the medals pinned to her chest gleamed, “But as this is the first time they're all seeing me today – well, you get the idea.”

Eyes darting down, Angie frowned at the red-emblazoned gold crowns and squares sparkling at each of Peggy's shoulders. She really wished she'd actually taken the time to learn what all the officer rank insignia were. Normally it didn't matter, because normally she was overlooked. Invisible, unless she carried a report full of her latest odd discovery or invention. Officers tended not to care much about foreign junior mechanics. And to be fair she didn't blame them. Even now, she was getting strange looks from others in the hallway for talking with Peggy.

She pointed at Peggy's getup, “Should I technically be saluting you?”

“Oh lord, please don't.”

“Where'd you even get all this fancy brass anyway?” Angie made a show of shielding her eyes as though from the glare of sunlight, “I think I'm going to go blind.”

Peggy smiled and said vaguely, “Here and there.”

“Come on. There's gotta be some stories behind these. Spill.”

Instead, Peggy shrugged, “There isn't much to tell. You go where you're told. You complete a mission. You come home. They give you a medal for service. Rinse and repeat.”

A deflection. Again. Angie was getting real tired of all these brush-offs.

“Look. I don't know you, Peg. But, given recent events...I mean-” Angie bit her lip and continued, “I'd like to get to know you. If that's not what you want, then at least have the courtesy to tell me, and I'll stop bothering you.”

For a moment Peggy seemed completely stumped. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. Then she gathered herself, and said, “I don't -” she swallowed, “I'm no good at this.” The look she gave Angie was imploring and so different from the one earlier down the hallway, Angie had a hard time believing this was the same person, “I want to try. I want to be better at this. I want-” she looked around them to see if anyone was listening, and stepped closer, lowering her voice, “I want that date, Angie, I really do-”

“Carter, we're ready for you.” They were interrupted by a senior officer, who had just emerged from the Major-General's office to call Peggy in. His chest bore even more bling than Peggy's.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Peggy breathed out before saying over her shoulder, “I'll be right with you, sir.” Then she grasped Angie's hand and whispered, “We _will_ talk. I promise.”

And then she was striding away, and her transformation was fluid, instantaneous. From open and earnest, to crisp and detached in a moment. Just like back in France.

The three days leading up to their return to England, they hardly saw one another. Peggy had pulled back from their kiss when American and French personnel sped towards the wreckage in Jeeps. After they'd been taken away and their identities confirmed, there was little time for them to spend alone.

For starters, they'd given Peggy different quarters as an officer. Still of Indeterminate Rank – Angie really must ask about that. She was going mad not knowing.

Secondly, it was difficult to just waltz up to someone's door and ask for smooches when you knew that someone could break a man's neck with their bare hands. All without chipping a nail. How she did it was a complete mystery, but Angie had an inkling.

Black magic. Congress with the Beast. No doubt about it.

Also scary. Just a little bit. Ok, maybe more than a little bit.

But she did want smooches, dammit. Scared or not. Those kisses in the cockpit of the Liberator had been very nice, if out of the blue – Peggy sure was good at it. Angie wanted to try her hand at kissing Peggy when she wasn't stunned and gaping like a fish after having crash-landed in Ally-occupied France. But the timing never was quite right.

Speaking of kisses. Angie owed a certain someone.

Stan excited her about as much as a dip in Lake Erie in February, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Angie was a woman of her word, and she'd made a promise.

Unsurprisingly she found Stan at her hangar. More accurately she found Stan just leaving her hangar, his shoulders slumped. When he saw her striding towards him, he perked up, lifting a hand to wave. She didn't return the gesture, just marched right up to him, grabbed him by the front of his jacket, and jerked him down for a hard kiss.

It went on for a good minute or two. A few passers-by hooted and whistled.

“You, sir,” she said when they finally parted, straightening the lapels of his nice jacket, “are going to make some nice girl very happy someday. But that's not going to be me. You know that, right?”

He smiled down at her and reached out to brush a lock of hair from her eyes, “Yes. I know. Was nice though, yes?”

She shrugged and gave him an impish look, “Not bad.”

“Good,” he offered her an arm, “We walk? I want to discuss this latest Focke-Wulf design. Sorry. _Your_ latest Focke-Wulf design.” He added, correcting himself.

“Oh, you bet.”

It felt like home, sliding back into this routine. Strolling around the Comms building. Gabbing animatedly to a willing ear about a BMW 801 D-2 engine and the possibility of larger wings for greater manoeuvrability at higher altitudes – and wouldn't it just be grand slapping a MK 103 cannon on it? Gosh. – Then darting for cover when the overcast sky started to spit rain. And Stan was a perfect gentleman when he took her back to her quarters at E-block. Didn't even ask for a parting peck on the cheek. Just walked her to the door and left.

She missed New York.

The thought hit her like a blow to the chest as soon as she entered her room, the door sliding shut behind her, locking her away, all alone..

She almost died in Italy and she missed New York. She missed her Dad's shops. She missed her Ma's cooking. She missed Nora's quiet, comforting hugs. She missed Giorgina's endless string of beaux. She missed the twins' identical sidelong smiles. She missed Teresa's rowdy three children and passive-aggressive snark.

It was nearing dusk. The mess-hall would be closed, and everyone would be heading off, either to their quarters, or to a local pub or dance hall. At least the hangar would be empty at this hour. At least there she could be surrounded by familiar smells and sights, and bury herself in an engine.

At least engines made sense. Unlike pretty and mysterious lady-officers of indeterminate rank.

After a quick sprint through the rain, she entered the hangar, brushing water from her hair, and immediately her gaze narrowed in on her section of floor. It had been blocked off by sheets and tarpaulin, and her first thought was that Paul Harris must've had some hand in this. Teeth grinding, she stormed over, and wrenched back a sheet to reveal –

Peggy.

The floor was festooned with cushions, and upon a blanket there spread a meal like a picnic. A very fancy picnic, complete with wine and fancy crystal glasses and tiny silver spoons. An electric lantern cast a cold yellowish light across the space. The partially dismantled Focke-Wulf she had been working on before she left for Italy still loomed there, presiding over the dinner set-up like one of those sleek metal gargoyles on the Chrysler building.

Snapping upright from where she was bent over laying cutlery out on the floor, Peggy straightened as though squaring up her shoulders to attention. Then without hesitation she launched into, “I was born in London. I have a brother named Michael still living there. My parents died when I was young. We were raised by my grandmother and my uncle. My uncle died five years ago, and my grandmother died a year after. I've broken three ribs and an arm. I've been shot twice. In my right shoulder. It aches when the temperature drops too low. Captain Steve Rogers and I were something of an item before he died last year. I say 'something' because not much happened, to be perfectly honest. I enjoy tea and coffee equally. I love boysenberry jam. My favourite colour is blue, though most people think it's red. I hate broccoli.”

When Angie didn't reply, Peggy cleared her throat, wringing her hands behind her back and forging on like a steam-roller, “I was going to have candles, but I've been informed by a good source that there's to be no fire in the hangar,” she gestured to the electric lamp she brought instead and gave a weak smile.

Angie stepped inside, and the sheet slid shut behind her like a curtain, enclosing them in the private space, “Never would've pegged you as the romantic type, English.”

“Yes. Well,” Peggy shifted and jerked her chin up higher, “We all have our little secrets.”

Angie just smiled and smoothed her palms down her baggy overalls. One of those dresses would've been good right about now. She wished Peggy had told her, so she could've dressed appropriately, instead of like – well, like she normally dressed.

“Are you hungry?” Peggy asked, a hopeful lilt to her voice.

“Not really,” Angie answered. Perhaps a little too truthfully.

Peggy's mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise, and when she looked down at the food she seemed to wilt.

Aw, hell. Good job, Martinelli.

“I'll have some wine, though,” Angie said quickly. She settled herself on a cushion, crossing her legs, elbows perched on her knees.

“Right. Yes. Good.” Clearing her throat, Peggy knelt down beside her and pulled the wine bottle and two glasses towards them, “A 1932 _brunello_ ,” she said as she poured, “I managed to steal it from the General's personal supply.”

“Daring of you.”

Peggy shrugged and handed Angie a glass, “He owes me.”

“What rank are you?” Angie blurted out.

Peggy blinked at her, “I beg your pardon?”

“What? Is that like the Army equivalent of asking a woman's age or something?”

“Major, if you must know,” Peggy answered with a rueful shake of her head, “They tried promoting me to Lieutenant Colonel a little over a month ago. The night you helped me with my car, actually.” Her voice hardened, “In fact I was informed today that I would be a Lieutenant Colonel or I would be out.” She raised her glass of wine and said dryly, “Here's to promotions nobody wants!”

“Clearly someone wants it.” Angie didn't toast, but she did still take a gulp of wine.

Scowling fiercely, Peggy muttered something foul into her wine glass before draining it in a single draught.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?”

It slipped out all sultry and inviting before Angie could stop herself. Where that sort of daring came from, she didn't know, but it sure was worth it for the look on Peggy's face.

Peggy almost choked on her wine, managing to set aside her glass and school herself just in time to not send the _brunello_ spewing everywhere. After she swallowed, she turned to Angie with as straight a face as she could manage while hiding a discrete cough and watery eyes.

“This wasn't meant to be a seducti-” she wheezed, but had to give in to a coughing fit in spite of her best efforts.

“You know,” Angie put aside her glass, eyes crinkled in a smile, “at first I was confused why everyone wasn't swooning over you left and right. But now I think I see why.”

“Yes, well,” clearing her throat, Peggy made a valiant recovery, tucking a stray curl back into place, “from what I gather, most of them are afraid of me.”

“I can understand that sentiment.”

The look Peggy gave her then could only be described as stricken.

Before she could stop herself, her hand was on Peggy's face, palm warmed by her cheek, “Don't worry. It's part of your charm.” She murmured, leaning in to kiss her.

The kiss was soft and short, and when she pulled away Peggy's eyes were wet, “Angie, I would never hurt you-”

“Shut up and kiss me again, English.”

It started off slow, but didn't stay that way for long. Soon she was tipping Angie's head back and kneeling over her, tasting of old smoke and red wine. Their breaths came out messy and gasped. Her hands found the zipper at Angie's front, tugging it down, peeling the overalls away to the stained undershirt. Angie pulled at the buttons of Peggy's jacket, fisting in the fabric and tugging it open.

When Peggy's mouth moved to her neck, she squirmed and yanked that crisp white shirt up from where it was tucked into the khaki high-waisted skirt. Her hands clawed at the sleek planes of Peggy's back as Peggy's fingers danced down her abdomen, her teeth finding that soft secret spot beneath her ear.

She didn't realise she'd stuttered out Peggy's name, until Peggy pulled back to study her, dark eyes piercing. Peggy was looking at her like _that_ again, except for instead of instilling fear, Angie felt a thrill shoot straight down.

Oh, boy. She really had it bad.

And then Peggy's teeth were on her throat, and her fingers were gliding up and down her thighs, and Angie couldn't think of much else. Just sank back into a pile of cushions and dragged Peggy down atop her.

When Broadway came a-calling, you didn't ask questions; you sang.

* * *

"Do you play any instruments?"

Rain hammered on the tin roof of the hangar. All their clothes were strewn about the various cushions, and the food remained untouched. Peggy's knees were hooked over Angie's shoulders.

"Piano," Peggy answered with a hiss, eyes clenched. For every new piece of information she gave, Angie's tongue flickered out and her fingers pressed up, "I took lessons from a woman down the street at the age of eight. I was always rubbish at it, though." 

Angie hummed and stopped, just holding her mouth over Peggy's clit until she rocked her hips and whined Angie's name. Then Angie finished her off in earnest, Peggy's hands clenching in her hair, quietly panting.

While Peggy recovered, chest heaving, Angie leaned over her and grabbed a bread roll, "Good thing you brought all this food. I'm starving after that workout now."

Peggy laughed, and the movement sent warmth racing up through Angie's stomach, "Still hungry?"

"What are you? An amateur?" Angie mumbled around a mouthful of bread, "We gotta keep our stamina up if we're gonna have another few rounds. I ain't done with you yet. Not by a long shot. Besides," she grinned wickedly, "You still owe me more information."

 


	8. Chapter 8

It was May 1945. The war was over. Peggy was a fully-fledged Colonel. And Angie was -

Well, Angie was going to really miss this. All of this. 

She couldn't say the last two years had been the best of her life, but they were certainly something superlative. 

One of the greatest wars the world had yet seen had ended, and Peggy had said, “I love you,” and Angie had said – 

“Hmm.” 

In short Angie hadn’t said anything, actually. 

Just – 

“ _Hmm._ ” 

In her defence, it had been a very contemplative “Hmm.” All thoughtful and sombre and the like. 

Ok, that was a lie. A damn dirty lie. ‘Thoughtful and sombre’? Yeah, right. 

Oh, give her a break. It was a bit of an overwhelming moment, alright? There were people thrashing the dance floor – because what else are good, celebrating folk supposed to do if not make their way to the local watering hole and set their feet moving? – and the band was raging, and Angie and Peggy both had downed one too many drinks. Not to mention, Angie finally got that chance to wear a nice dress, and it was worth it for the way Peggy’s eyes wandered the whole night. 

At one point Peggy had dragged Angie into a hidden corner of another room, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her senseless. There may have also been some finger work involved. Angie refused to confirm or deny. Certainly she would never admit that she had come twice with nothing separating her from a roomful of people but two thin walls and Peggy’s torso.  

And that was when Peggy decided to say it. Murmured sweetly and sincerely into Angie’s shoulder, while Angie still had her dress shucked up beyond her knees, gasping for breath and twitching like a fish out of water. 

Now, what’s a poor girl to do in that sort of situation, huh? 

Panic.

Simple, blind, unadulterated, honest panic. 

By the time she had recovered her breath, she’d let out vague and tactless, “Hmm.” Followed by, “I need another dance. And another drink.” All falsely cheery, said with too bright a smile. 

Even tipsy there was no way for her to miss the thinly-veiled hurt on Peggy’s face when she’d grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her back out onto the dance floor. 

The next morning the echo of a hangover was surpassed only by the nauseous, roiling guilt in her stomach. Peggy’s nose was buried in the space between her shoulder blades, and she’d crept over to Angie’s side of the bed when Angie had inevitably stolen all the blankets during the night. 

She was paralyzed by panic for nearly two whole days after that night. Peggy didn’t mention it once. In fact, the morning after when she woke up, Peggy rolled out of bed and padded around their quarters on bare feet. She returned to place a tall glass of water and two aspirin onto the bedside table next to Angie’s head, leaning down to run her hands through loose curls before walking away. Which, of course, only made Angie feel worse about the whole thing.  

Angie had feigned sleep until Peggy dressed and left – because of course even the day after V-day Peggy still got dressed and hauled her sorry tush into work – before clambering out of bed herself and fleeing their quarters to find refuge in the hangar.

Technically they were Peggy’s quarters, and not Angie’s at all. They’d decided to move Angie in after they’d been together for a few months, keeping Angie’s quarters down in E-block just for ceremonial purposes. People would ask questions. 

Not that they didn’t already know. 

Angie and Peggy were RAE Farnborough’s worst kept secret. Right behind that whole Vickers Transonic Research Rocket. Strictly speaking Angie wasn’t allowed to speak about the latter. In fact she could get into a lot of trouble just mentioning the name of that project. 

So, just to be clear: Angela Martinelli was in no way involved with the Vickers Transonic Research Rocket, or its 362 kg thrust alcohol-hydrogen peroxide propulsion system developed from the Walter RI 2031209 ATO unit. 

In fact: what even was that? Who knows. Not Angie. 

Anyway - The point was, people knew about them. As a couple. Which didn’t do much for their reputations. Not that Angie had much of a reputation to uphold, but Peggy’s probably didn’t need besmirching. Perhaps it was because of their relationship that Peggy was surprised when she was promoted yet again. 

The day she was made a Colonel, she came home grumpy. Just as grumpy as the night they'd first met. Maybe even grumpier. 

“Damn that old man!” she paced their quarters, hands clenched into fists, eyes blazing, “He puts far too much trust in me!” 

Turned out the Major-General had a soft-spot where Peggy was concerned. Said she reminded him of his daughter. All vim and verve and under-valued competence. And while Peggy cursed his name near every week, Angie knew that Peggy was very fond of him. 

Angie’s reputation, on the other hand, was in no danger of sinking any lower than it already was. To her colleagues she was the outsider: the loud-mouthed, rough-mannered, Yankee waif of a girl with a love of the colour pink, and a freakish affinity for all things mechanical. If she liked girls as well as guys, well – what’s one more mark against her? 

She arrived at the hangar that first day after _The Incident_ , all wound up, taking out her frustrations on an innocent Gloster Meteor F.3. She’d boosted the fuel capacity and was working on a tail modification based on the E.1/44. She also wanted a longer fuselage, but knew she didn’t have enough time to actually achieve it. But that wasn’t the point. 

The point was that she would miss this. And that she was very afraid. 

She was afraid she was going to lose Peggy for being such an idiot. And she was afraid she would never be able to work on another airplane, or anything remotely interesting for the rest of her sad sorry life. And while she knew that one of those things was definitely more important than the other, she couldn’t help but feel that she was really going to miss this. Peggy she couldn’t bear to face out of shame and pure humiliation, but this – 

At least she had this. At least for just a few more weeks. 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

She didn’t need to look up to recognise that voice. 

“Scram, Paul,” she growled, plugging in flush rivets to the Gloster’s tail. 

He held up his hands, “Just thought I’d offer you some advice. If you’re having – ah – _lady troubles_ , you should do what I do.” 

“What? Sleep with another woman?” Angie drawled. She didn’t technically need her 300mm hacksaw, but she picked it up anyway and glared. 

With a derisive snort, he swept back his fair hair and said, “No. Give her some space. She’ll cool down.” 

He did a convincing job of looking nonchalant, but his eyes darted nervously to the hacksaw. 

It occurred to Angie then that Paul was – though it ached in her teeth to say it – right. In a way. Except for the fact that he assumed _Peggy_ was the one who needed space. 

“By the way,” Paul wheedled, moving closer, oozing that repulsive charm, “is that an E.1/44 tail shape you’re using there?” 

Angie threw the hacksaw at him. Followed by a dead blow hammer, and he fled, cursing. She grew up playing baseball with Frankie – she could nail a man in the face with a spanner at twenty paces. 

She really should’ve kept that tarpaulin up around her section of floor. And not just for salacious reasons. Though those were good too. 

The rest of the day she spent fuming. Eventually, she had to turn in for the night – though she was sorely tempted to sleep in the Gloster’s cockpit. Too bad it was about as spacious and comfortable as a pew on Easter Sunday. 

The first night Angie came back from the hangar late, Peggy was already fast asleep in their bed. Angie crept under the covers and huddled as close to Peggy’s warmth as she dared, hoping she wouldn’t wake her. Of course, Peggy, being the world’s lightest sleeper, stirred, glanced over at who it was, then promptly dropped her head back onto the pillow with nothing but a sleepy greeting. 

The second night, however, exhausted and smelling of jet fuel, Angie trudged back to their quarters to find that Peggy was not asleep. The lights were on, and she was sitting with her feet propped on a kitchen chair, nursing a cup of tea and reading through a stack of reports. Peggy claimed that the only difference between Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel proper, was that one had more paperwork and responsibilities. Also more red stripes and shiny baubles on their uniform. 

When Peggy looked up from a report, Angie froze in the doorway like a deer in the headlights. 

“Ah, you’re back. Good,” Peggy drained the cup of tea and tossed the report down onto the kitchen table, “I was hoping we could talk.” 

Uh oh. That was never a good opening line. 

Shutting the door behind her and walking fully inside, Angie rubbed at her eyes, “Look, Peg, could we do this later? All I want is a shower and sleep.” 

But Peggy, not rising from her seat, interrupted with, “I’ve been offered a job. A good one.” 

Angie blinked, “Oh! That’s-That’s great, hun.” The smile she plastered on felt forced even to her. Still, she drew closer to the kitchen in an attempt at seeming open and interested in the conversation. Anything but absolutely terrified, which was nearer the truth. 

“Howard Stark and Chester Philips have offered me the position of Director of an extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency,” At the blank look on Angie’s face, Peggy took a deep breath and added, “Its headquarters are in New York.” 

Clearing her throat, Peggy stood and fished out a piece of paper from the many strewn across the table, holding it out to Angie, “I’ve accepted on the condition that Philips put a good word in for you at the Suffolk County Air force Base. Now technically it’s been rehabilitated as a civilian airport, but they still need good technicians and I have it on good authority it won’t stay civilian for long.” She pushed the paper into Angie’s hands, and said in a rush, “It was the closest I could get you to New York City proper. And I can get us a car, which you can use. I won’t need it. I’ll be working in the city, so I can go by subway, and you can be closer to your family and-” 

But she didn't get much further. 

Angie surged forward and yanked her down for a kiss, and when they parted she breathed, “I love you.” 

Ruffled indifference and absolute delight warred on Peggy's face, and she grumbled, “Took you long enough to say it back.” 

“I also love it when you pout. Reminds me of when we first met. It's adorable.”

“I am a Colonel of the British Armed Forces, and the soon-to-be Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I am _not_ adorable.”

“Yikes. That’s a mouthful,” Angie grinned up at her, then pressed a flurry of kisses to the corners of Peggy’s mouth, “When do we go? I need to tell my Ma and Dad I’m coming home.”

“Two weeks,” Peggy replied, watching as Angie flounced off towards the bathroom, already stripping out of her grungy overalls.

“Do you think I could finish the Gloster before we head off across the pond?”

“That depends. Is two weeks enough time?” Peggy sank back into her chair and picked up the report she’d earlier discarded.

“Should be.” The overalls and undershirt dropped to the floor, and water hissed from the shower.

“Well, there you go.” 

“Hey,” Angie paused and poked her head around the open door of the bathroom, revealing her narrow naked shoulders, “Things are all good with us, yeah?” 

Peering over the top of a report, Peggy smiled, all soft and genuine, “Never better.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Angie returned the smile, "Good."

Then she ducked off into a much needed hot shower.

It wasn't the best shower she'd ever had. Nor were these last two years the best of her life. Yet they felt like it. And she could say with reasonable confidence that they were certainly something.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Scheme Of Things [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118810) by [lattice_frames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lattice_frames/pseuds/lattice_frames)




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